


The Lais of Marie de France

by Marie_Michon



Category: DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: AU - The Fabulous Adventures in Immortality of the Vampire Aramis and the Man Who Named the Mountain, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Fae & Fairies, Marie Morgane, Marie de France, Missing Scene, Other, Post-Canon, Sirens, alternate universe - Fairy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 04:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13403349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Michon/pseuds/Marie_Michon
Summary: Another one Of Hilary Grimley’s Adventures as theGrigoriButler of the Man Who Named the MountainTaken from the 'book of notes' of Mr. Grimley for the Annual Grigori Assembly...He is still invited, nobody got the memo that he was released and works as a butler now…





	The Lais of Marie de France

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Donna_Immaculata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/gifts), [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Titanomachy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12730956) by [Donna_Immaculata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata), [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF). 



> This is a missing scene to [Titanomachy, the Belle-Île chapters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12730956/chapters/30224400) by Donna_Immaculata & ElDiablito_SF.
> 
> This is a humble tribute work, inspired by their epic "The Fabulous Adventures in Immortality of the Vampire Aramis and the Man Who Named the Mountain" and written as a gift to them for Donna's Birthday. Joyeux anniversaire!! *opens Crémant de Loire*
> 
> Again, this is written without their authorisation!
> 
> All character-traits you don't recongise from Dumas are Donna_Immaculata's & ElDiablito_SF's!  
>   
> 

  **Belle-Île, France, winter 2017**

The Citadelle de Vauban was built over a natural bay in the middle of the northeast long side of the island. The place had been strategically chosen as it was capable of monitoring whole passage, _L_ _a Rade De Le Palais,_ between the Southern Brittany and Belle-Île, the last refuge before the brutal attack of the open ocean. It was built to dominate the _Côte Sauvage_ , especially the waterways to the mainland’s closest harbour, which lay only 15 km away on the Quiberon peninsula, as well as to the closest other habitation on the Île d’Houat. Facing the Breton mainland and being therefore the island’s coast most sheltered from the Atlantic ocean, its picturesque natural bays between the otherwise dangerously craggy cliffs had also been the home of Brittany’s most famous fishermen for centuries. 

Grimley remembered those times, back in 17th century France, when he had to procure the best fish and seafood for his masters and they were somewhere near the area he had to come here to get the best of the catch of the day. He had watched the fishermen work with their nets or weirs and supply the coast's best markets and houses. The charm of their little houses with their pastel-colored facades had made the island’s small bays a sought-after motif for visitors and even famous painters like Henri Matisse, van Gogh and Claude Monet…

 …that’s what they said in the tourist information flyers of this time. 

Grimley snorted a little, distinctively British, and put the flyer he had taken from what used to be the hotel lobby back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He knew what had lured poets, painters, writers and all the other kind of romantic scoundrels to these shores. It was neither their premier class fish and mussels, nor their miserable huts, it was the origin of their notorious superstitions, the _morganes_.

From under the Citadelle led a steep coastal path down to a tiny natural cove with what used to be a small sand beach touched by crystal clear water that used to shimmer viridian and turquoise back in the days. Grimley was thankful that night had fallen and the water was black now. The obsidian surface obscured all that floated inside and in the pale grey of the nocturnal light the boulders that lay strewn across the bay masked the other debris that lay scattered on all beaches in these times. 

Grimley had to smile to himself, a short crooked tug at the left corner of his mouth, as he remembered the Wikipedia entry of what was left of the sirens of the _Mythologie Bretonne,_ of the ‘ _Marie Morganes’_ , nowadays: 

_The Arthurian legend is strongly diffused in the Duchy of Brittany in the Middle Ages, through notably the poems of Marie de France. The great noble families of Laval and de Rohan claim the possession of Arthurian lands in Britain at the end of the fifteenth century, when the first written records of the legend of the city of Ys appeared._

Of course, those families had. All along the course of the ‘fairy tale’ story telling over all those centuries, it had been in their respective land-living Queens’ hands, always. And those Queens had not even tried to transport their true stories subtly hidden. They had always ‘hidden’ in plain sight, in the spot light, even, for all who wanted to see. And the Bretons had seen, especially the fishermen, or every good looking, strong muscled young man near the sea, a river or any other water… pesketour, pekador, pécheur, all those ancient Welsh, Gallic, and French words meant not only fisher, but also sinner. 

And as much as it pained him to avow, he was one of them. He had sinned. With a fairy. If there had been any qualified God left who could have forgiven him, he would have tried long ago. But instead he lay awake, many a night, when his annoyingly disgustoid sirs were on it, and thought about it. About _her._

He had told no one and apparently neither had she, for the daemonic doctor had never tried to bleed him dry and Kyrios had never made as much a sardonic remark, let alone thrash him on this account. He could have approached the Rohan nymph, but alpha) he wouldn’t know what to say to her and beta) she would most likely tell his masters which would engender the above mentioned situations. So no. And unfortunately it was not as if he could mail her, or anything.

Grimley pulled off his shoes and socks, set them neatly aside on a rock, folded his jacket piled it on the shoes, and rolled up his trouser legs to his knees. See, how easy it is to avoid unnecessary laundry? He sighed resignedly, they would never learn. People like them were part of the problem, the Grigori thought, all those wasted resources… 

He stepped to the shore, tiptoeing between jagged rocks and washed up waste, and into the dark shallow water. First light waves lapped at his feet, then polluted foam prickled against his ankles. As the ice cold water engulfed his taut calves the waves became more bubbly, clashed against him and send the sea spraying up at him, tasting him.

Dim light broke through the sour clouds and Grimley could see strands of seaweed floating by. He had to lift his feet completely out of the water as he waded on, to not get tangled in them.

“So with us never, belle amie, Me without you, you without me!" The Grigori recited that line of a medieval erotic poem, a _lai_ , of “Marie de France”.

Since mankind’s savior was able to cater for some of their motley group’s meals, now, he had had some time for research at hand. He knew that Fairy was closed off, but their priest of the sprites had had contact to all kinds of fae throughout their travels across Europe… Even her. Once they had caught a glimpse of her troops outside of their bus. But that had been it. Marie’s 12th  century _lais_ had been written in anglo-norman and contained a lot of 'cunning code' for no human to understand, of course. Outwardly they seemed to be glorifying the concept of chivalry and courtly love by the adventures of their main characters, but truly, these _lais_ were a form of communication amongst the supernatural world of that time - in this case, between her and Marion.

Grimley had found out that they have been communicating through such channels ever since and, believe it or, not, their 'cunning code' had remained almost the same and was not  _that_ secretive, if you knew where to look. The Grigori rolled his eyes. In the prologue of one of the original manuscripts Marie even wrote that she was inspired by the example of the ancient _Greeks and Romans_ to create something that would be both entertaining and morally instructive. Right. Grimley shook his head.

 _The Queen came Riding. As she rode_  
_She watched the upward-sloping road,_  
_She saw his staff perceived it well_  
_Could certainly those letters spell._  
_Attending Chevaliers who led her,_  
_As they rode on their way together_  
_She told to stop, she gave command_  
_She wished to rest and would descend,_  
_Her men obeyed; did not say nay,_  
_And from her knights she went some way_  
_As distance small along the road_  
_She went and found him in the wood_  
_Who loved her most of any being;_  
_Great joy they had, he and the Queen._

Well, the ‘being’ in the wood had not technically been a ‘he’, as we all know, but Marion, but apparently there was only so much erotic you could sell unpunished in the elevenhundreds.

Grimley was torn from his thoughts, when some of the seaweed tightened around his right ankle and tried to pull him down. If he had been a human being, he would have fallen, but he was a Grigori and his strength was supernatural, as well. The weeds grew more and thicker, and piece by piece they formed a hand, an arm, and then a body. It shimmered white under the dark water's surface, and slithered around him like a very wet cat. The sparse light played enough trick on the surface of the bubbly waves to let him think that this actually was a morgane.

Then she sang:

 _"Gwelas-te morverc'h, pesketour_  
_O kriban en bleo melen aour_  
_Dre an heol splann, e ribl an dour?_  
_Gwelous a ris ar morverc'h venn,_  
_M'he c'hlevis o kanann zoken_  
_Klemvanus tonn ha kanaouenn."_ *

"I am no fisherman, I am afraid", Grimley told the morgane in French, hoping she would speak that mordern a language, "but I am a sinner."

The morgane lifted her upper body half out of the water and watched the Grigory with cautious interest. She looked as grey as everything in this light, but she was nonetheless gorgeous, and very naked. She extended a long slim finger and swam a slow circle around the watcher, driving her finger around his body, touching his well formed chest, his arm, his back and back around to his right breast in her course until she arrived back at his front and stopped at his right nipple. She smiled and made a maritime noise, not unlike a purring dolphin, Grimley found, when she sang a dangerous question.

“I am deeply sorry, madame, but as much as I do regret it, I must decline. I have already lain with one of your kindred, and you know what would happen to me, if I betrayed her.”

The morgane giggled and asked with whom in her singsang way - he believed.

“La dame blanche”, Grimley answered earnestly, holding the beautiful sea-maiden's, if you could call those harlots even maiden, gaze, “Wild Bertha, Hunteress of the Chéserquine, Queen of Fairies, I know her as Marion. Do you know her?”

“Ooouh!”, the morgane acknowledged awestruck and dipped shortly under water before she resurfaced wholly and regarded him thoroughly with renewed interest.

“Would you know a way to contact her, madame?”, Grimly asked, bowing demurely, and looking up at her from under his long lashes, “please!?”

The morgane dipped under water and swam out into the channel with surprising speed. There she jumped out of the water and then dove deep, her tail slapping the water like that of a tumbling whale, only that she looked more like a slender beautiful guppy with a translucent widespread fan of a tail. Grimley stared after her. Nixies..., he had heard of their temper but he didn't know what to make of it. He bent down and patted the water surface with his open palm.

“Madame?”

Grimley took a second to appreciate that every other living human was already dead and could not witness his speaking with the sea.

“Morgane?”

It looked as if a big sea snake was rushing back towards him just under the water surface. Like Scotland's Nessi, actually, Grimley concluded. Hmmm...

The sea girl used the momentum of her swim-stream and jumped out of the water and against the Grigori who caught her in his arms, her tail across his one forearm, his other arm around her shoulder blades, careful not to touch the mound of her boob. She was bubbling happily and touched his dry hair in wonder.

“So your sisters of the Norman rivers can?”, Grimley thought to have understood.

“ _Dhaw poupeth am priz”_ she sang.

“What is that price?”, the Grigori asked, cautious.

“Kuzann”, she hissed with glee.

„All right“, the Grigory nodded and the sea girl pushed herself closer against him in his arms. She threw her arm around his neck pushed herself up a little in his arms and placed a cold and wet open mouthed kiss upon his lips. Then she giggled and nodded contently.

“So, here is what I would wish to be conveyed to her: ' _Happy Birthday, my Queen!_  'And then this personal message...” Grimley said, adjusted the morgane on his arm by bumping her up, pulled the girl flat to his chest, bowed over her head and kissed her properly, _French properly_ , until she squeed and pulled back.

Grimley stared at her intently, waiting for a reprimand or a confirmation, but she laughed in her beautiful singing voice, nodded and gave him another kiss on his cheek before she jumped off his arm and back into the water. Grimley felt her slither around his legs once more and bent down to stroke her goodbye, but she was gone.

As the Grigori waded back to the shore, brushing seaweeds, sand and chewing gum paper off his soaked shirt, he thought he should have rolled his sleeves up, as well.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Have you seen, Fisherman/Sinner,  
> the girl from the sea  
> combing her long, golden hair  
> as the high sun shone  
> here by the edge of the sea?  
> I saw the white girl from the sea,  
> I remember even hearing her sing,  
> Sorrow hung in the air and the song.  
> 


End file.
